Poetry for the Native American Flute
Playing Native American flute behind a poetry reading is a particularly good combination. Here are some poems and readings that I love to work with in these situations.
Ideally, the poetry is read in the cadence of call-and-response with spacing to allow for intervening flute music. A few readings have been very slightly modified to fit the situation.
See also the next page (click the button) for poems by Rumi.
Make Me a Wave
Make me a wave
Upon it I'll ride
Show me direction
We'll roll like the tide
Make me a groove
And with it I'll play
Rhythm and harmony
One way to pray
-- Brian Jeffries, firstname.lastname@example.org, contributed November 9, 2013 at the Native Rhythms festival.
Anasazi Spirits - a Tribute to Coyote Oldman
The ancient spirits gathered as the familiar echoing sounds
of their canyon home drifted into the night sky~
They had waited~
Those sounds had stayed silent for so long~
The ancient spirits circled themselves in prayer,
thanking Coyote Oldman~
From his sincere, humble love and desire,
a joy was brought back to them~
They had prayers of concern,
that in the hands of those that carried this ancient song stick,
would be hearts of respect and humbleness~
Prayers that the new journey of their ancient voices
be walked with words of remembrance and songs of honor~
A gift given to the new earthly ones,
so that their ancient voices could once again be heard
among the others~
-- Nakakakena (Boe Harris), July 2008
Mother Earth’s Lesson
I walk upon this land I call my home~
The only human sound I hear is the crackling
of the parched desert floor beneath my feet~
I stop to listen to the lessons the elders told me I’d hear,
if I walked gently on Earth Mother~
“OH MOTHER EARTH … I HEAR NOTHING!”
I placed each foot step gently,
continued my journey and stopped once again to listen~
“I HEAR NOTHING, NOTHING!” I shouted
in desperation of the lessons~
And as hope began to fade,
like the sun setting in the distance,
I began to pray,
“O Creator of all things, forgive my lack of humbleness.
I come with heart desires to know the journey that
you have for me and the lessons my elders have set before me.
Help me to listen, help me to hear.”
In the fluttering of a bird’s wings as it flew close to my head,
I heard a sweet voice whisper to me~
“PATIENCE, MY CHILD. YOU MUST HAVE PATIENCE.
OPEN YOUR SPIRIT SO YOU MAY HEAR THE MESSAGES
THAT ARE SENT TO YOU.
CREATOR SHALL GIVE THEM TO YOU WHEN YOU
HAVE PREPARED YOURSELF TO HEAR.”
SH~~~~SH~~~~SH~~~~MY CHILD. PATIENCE~~~~~LISTEN
-- Nakakakena (Boe Harris), 2009
Song for Guy Davenport
Within the circles of our lives
we dance the circles of the years,
the circles of the seasons
within the circles of the years,
the cycles of the moon
within the circles of the seasons,
the circles of our reasons
within the cycles of the moon.
Again, again we come and go,
changed, changing. Hands
join, unjoin in love and fear,
grief and joy. The circles turn,
each giving into each, into all.
Only music keeps us here,
each by all the others held.
In the hold of hands and eyes
we turn in pairs, that joining
joining each to all again.
And then we turn aside, alone,
out of the sunlight gone
into the darker circles of return.
-- Wendell Berry, from The Selected Poems of Wendell Berry ([Berry 1999]), and also Earth Prayers from Around the World by Elizabeth Roberts ([Roberts-E 1991], page 286).
En nuestras almas todo
por misteriosa mano se gobierna.
nada sabemos de las almas nuestras.
Las más hondas palabras
del sabio nos enseñan,
lo que el silbar del viento cuando sopla,
o el sonar de las aguas cuando ruedan.
In our souls everything
moves guided by a mysterious hand.
we know nothing of our own souls.
The deepest words
of the wise men teach us
the same as the whistle of the wind when it blows
or the sound of the water when it is flowing.
-- Antonio Machado (1875-1939), Spanish poet, translated by Robert Bly, from Times Alone: Selected Poems of Antonio Machado ([Machado 1983]). Note that I have changed the third and fourth lines of Robert Bly's English translation from the original translation of
“We know nothing of our own souls
that are understandable, and say nothing.”
It doesn't interest me what you do for a living.
I want to know what you ache for,
and if you dare to dream of meeting your heart's longing.
It doesn't interest me how old you are.
I want to know if you will risk looking like a fool for love,
for your dream, for the adventure of being alive.
It doesn't interest me what planets are squaring your moon.
I want to know if you have touched the center of your own sorrow,
if you have been opened by life's betrayals or have become
shriveled and closed from fear of further pain!
I want to know if you can sit with pain, mine or your own,
without moving to hide it or fade it, or fix it.
I want to know if you can be with joy, mine or your own,
if you can dance with wildness and let the ecstasy fill you to the
tips of your fingers and toes without cautioning us to be careful,
to be realistic, to remember the limitations of being human.
It doesn't interest me if the story you are telling me is true.
I want to know if you can disappoint another to be true to yourself;
if you can bear the accusation of betrayal and not betray your own soul;
if you can be faithless and therefore trustworthy.
I want to know if you can see beauty even when it's not pretty,
every day, and if you can source your own life from its presence.
I want to know if you can live with failure, yours and mine,
and still stand on the edge of the lake and shout to the silver of the full moon, “Yes!”
It doesn't interest me to know where you live or how much money you have.
I want to know if you can get up, after the night of grief and despair,
weary and bruised to the bone, and do what needs to be done to feed the children.
It doesn't interest me who you know or how you came to be here.
I want to know if you will stand in the center of the fire with me and not shrink back.
It doesn't interest me where or what or with whom you have studied.
I want to know what sustains you, from the inside, when all else falls away.
I want to know if you can be alone with yourself
and if you truly like the company you keep in the empty moments.
-- Oriah Mountain Dreamer, from the 1999 book The Invitation ([Dreamer 1999]).
The Song of the Stars
We are the stars which sing,
We sing with our light;
We are the birds of fire,
We fly over the sky.
Our light is a voice;
We make a road for spirits,
For the spirits to pass over.
Among us are three hunters
Who chase a bear;
There never was a time
When they were not hunting.
We look down on the mountains.
This is the Song of the Stars.
-- Algonquin Poem,
contributed by John DeBoer
Playing Flute to the Geese
I close my eyes,
hear my song,
feel it's unsung words
in the easy rhythm
of my breathing,
of fingers rise
When at last
I open them,
I see invisible geese -
dark birds against
dark hay bales under
dark, autumn sky.
I can feel them;
they are still here.
-- Carl Bludts, from Feathered Pipe Memories ([Bludts 2000]).
We are the Stars
We are the stars that sing.
We sing with our light.
We are the birds of fire.
We fly across the heaven.
Our light is a star.
-- Passamaquoddy tribal prayer,
from Chants and Prayers by Stan Padilla ([Padilla 1996]).
The Star of Love
Music, be thy sails unfurled,
Bear me to thy better world;
O'er a cold and weltering sea,
Blow thy breezes warm and free;
Take me to that far-off shore,
Where lovers meet to part no more;
There doubt, and fear and sin are o'er,
That star of love shall set no more.
-- Margaret Fuller, from Summer on the Lakes, in 1843 ([Fuller 1843]), excerpt from her poem, page 244. Margaret Fuller describes the Winnebago courting flute earlier in this publication.
It Was the Wind
It was the wind that gave them life.
It was the wind that comes out of our mouths now that gives us life.
When this ceases to blow, we die.
In the skin at the tips of our fingers we see the trail of the wind;
it shows us where the wind blew when our ancestors were created.
-- Anonymous Navajo poem, from [Matthews 1897], page 69.
Advice from a Tree
Stand Tall and Proud
Sink your roots deeply into the Earth
Reflect the light of a greater source
Think long term
Go out on a limb
Remember your place among all living beings
Embrace with joy the changing seasons
For each yields its own abundance
The Energy and Birth of Spring
The Growth and Contentment of Summer
The Wisdom to let go of leaves in the Fall
The Rest and Quiet Renewal of Winter
Feel the wind and the sun
And delight in their presence
Look up at the moon that shines down upon you
And the mystery of the stars at night.
Seek nourishment from the good things in life
Earth, fresh air, light
Be content with your natural beauty
Drink plenty of water
Let your limbs sway and dance in the breezes
Remember your roots
Enjoy the view!
-- Ilan Shamir, from Advice from a Tree: Guided Journal, published by Your True Nature, ([Shamir 1999]).
The Song Of Hiawatha
By the shores of Gitche Gumee,
By the shining Big-Sea-Water,
Stood the wigwam of Nokomis,
Daughter of the Moon, Nokomis.
Dark behind it rose the forest,
Rose the black and gloomy pine-trees,
Rose the firs with cones upon them;
Bright before it beat the water,
Beat the clear and sunny water,
Beat the shining Big-Sea-Water.
At the door on summer evenings
Sat the little Hiawatha;
Heard the whispering of the pine-trees,
Heard the lapping of the waters,
Sounds of music, words of wonder;
"Minne-wawa!" said the Pine-trees,
"Mudway-aushka!" said the water.
In the Islands of the Blessed,
Most beloved by Hiawatha
Was the gentle Chibiabos,
He the best of all musicians,
He the sweetest of all singers.
Beautiful and childlike was he,
Brave as man is, soft as woman,
Pliant as a wand of willow,
Stately as a deer with antlers.
When he sang, the village listened;
All the warriors gathered round him,
All the women came to hear him;
Now he stirred their souls to passion,
Now he melted them to pity.
From the hollow reeds he fashioned
Flutes so musical and mellow,
That the brook, the Sebowisha,
Ceased to murmur in the woodland,
That the wood-birds ceased from singing,
And the squirrel, Adjidaumo,
Ceased his chatter in the oak-tree,
And the rabbit, the Wabasso,
Sat upright to look and listen.
All the many sounds of nature
Borrowed sweetness from his singing;
All the hearts of men were softened
By the pathos of his music;
For he sang of peace and freedom,
Sang of beauty, love, and longing;
Sang of death, and life undying
In the Islands of the Blessed,
In the kingdom of Ponemah,
In the land of the Hereafter.
-- Henry W. Longfellow, excerpts from sections 3 and 4 from The Song of Hiawatha ([Longfellow 1855]), in Kalevala meter.
There is no controlling life.
Try controlling a lightning bolt,
containing a tornado. Dam a
stream and it will create a new
channel. Resist and the tide
will sweep you off your feet.
Allow and grace will carry
you to higher ground. The only
safety lies in letting it all in –
the wild with the weak; fear,
fantasies and success.
When the loss rips off the doors of
the heart, or sadness veils your
vision with despair, practice
becomes simply bearing the truth.
In the choice to let go of your
known way of being, the whole
world is revealed in your new eyes.
-- Danna Faulds, from Poems from the Heart of Yoga ([Faulds 1997]).
Stream music is
with such fluency
that I stop my
walk to listen
on the bridge.
Water races over
itself into my
I too am humming,
my voice and a
mingling so easily.
there seems to be
no fixed boundaries
here in the woods,
the earth’s slow
-- Danna Faulds, from Limitless - New Poems and other Writings ([Faulds 2009]).
The Indian Flute-Song
I do not blame the little birds
For flying down so near;
I do not blame the little brook
For creeping close to hear;
The tiny specks of sunshine too
that flutter from the sky,
And drop in spots of golden light
Down through the leaves so green and bright,
And on the soft grass lie;
They come in answer to a voice
That seems a brother's call:—
The flute-song that my father plays,
The sweetest song of all;
It brings the summer breezes back
Just as they thought to creep
To sunny lands so far away,
Where they could take a holiday,
And, drowsy, drop to sleep.
It sets the little aspen-leaves
To dancing on the tree;
And starts my heart to singing
To the sweetest melody.
And even in my dreams at night
I hear the flute-song call,
So sweet and drowsy, low and clear,
It brings the woodland voices near,
And seems to sing them all.
-- Grace Purdie Moon, from [Moon-GP 1917].
the glue that holds us together
unfettered and free, unconditional and open
a heart's purest expression that can be shared
the ultimate vulnerability and knows no bounds
eternal beyond the physical and intellectual awareness
the essence of who we are and what we are meant to be
freely given to be embraced, nurtured in its infancy and relished in its maturity
a beacon lighting the way to wholeness and completion of spirit
the undercarriage of faith and hope
seals the holes and cracks of life and living
blossoms in all seasons
inflates and grows with no limitations
enables great feats of courage, strength, endurance
heals all wounds
enables us to forget and put away the past
answers the questions that seem to have no answers
enables us to experience the authentic essence of soul
nestled inside a fragile physical body
Love - God's greatest gift enabling forgiveness, compassion, empathy and reaching out beyond yourself
Love, so simple, so complex, so easy, yet so hard. It requires us to let go and accept who "we" all are without reservation
Love is the essence that, when we die, releases into the universe and settles like fairy dust on those we shared it with. It stays working its magic forever.
Love is our final companion on our journey home. Love, pure unadulterated love.
Love just "IS." It is the essence of "I AM."
-- Patricia B. Smith, Ph.D., written February 4, 2007, contributed at Flute Haven 2010.